Bad Company

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Aftershocks 16.1: The Trojan Horse

TITLE: Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered PiecesSUMMARY: Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.CHARACTERS: Wilson, HouseRATING: R for language and themes.WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.SPOILERS: No.DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

The Trojan Horse

"Hey! Wilson! Wake up!"

House watches as Wilson struggles up from his semi-reclined, drug-aided slumber. He waits patiently through these new stages of waking; with Wilson's physical recovery proceeding well, he no longer feels the need to rouse him and check for neurological damage.

Wilson moans softly and moves his right arm to cover his belly.

Trying to protect his vitals, House thinks.

A leg shifts restlessly under the white cotton sheet.

Trying to run. Trying to kick.

Wilson's right hand clenches into a tight fist; the muscles of his right bicep twitch.

Trying to fight back.

"Wilson," House says more softly. "It's okay. You're safe now."

It's been like this every morning. He thinks Wilson is dreaming, revisiting the place that's acquired a permanent address in his head. A barn, where the corners are always dark and there's a silver cigarette case lying open on an empty table.

He hasn't asked and Wilson hasn't said.

"House?" The name is slurred; it's difficult for Wilson to form the "ow" sound with his broken jaw. Wilson's told him it was the last thing Grey Eyes' men did, and House has wondered ever since if it was a random choice or another example of Martin's perverse sense of poetry to rob the man who counsels others in pain the ability to speak of his own.

"The one and only," House says, and forces himself to look into Wilson's eyes. The pupils are slightly smaller than they should be for the morning hour—the side effect of pain and being loaded up on assorted narcotics. "Want some water? Juice?"

"W'dr," Wilson mumbles, and that's been a new morning routine too. The bastards who'd held him (tortured him, call it what it really was) for twenty-four hours hadn't bothered to give him any, and Wilson had been seriously dehydrated by the time he'd been dumped in the alley. Even though he was pumped full of glucose and liquids in the hospital, he craves water—can't seem to get enough of it, like a sailor who's lost his compass and gotten marooned in a desert.

House makes sure now there's always a couple of bottles of fresh water within Wilson's reach. He grabs the nearest one and checks that the little blue nozzle is popped up. He hands it to Wilson, who tilts the bottle and squirts a long drink into his mouth.

"Y'know, you could squirt some of that stuff on your body too," House says. "You don't have another shower pretty soon, you'll start stinking up my apartment."

"Had one t'hospital."

"They wiped the puke off you at the hospital," House clarifies, "and that was two smelly days ago. You haven't had a complete shower since you fired Clarabelle."

Wilson looks around in annoyance. "Carla Jean. And I din't fire her!"

"Okay, so I fired her," House concedes. "My original point stands: you need a bath and there's no way in hell I'm giving you one."

"Can't showr." Wilson's eyes drop; he sets the water bottle down and gently touches his strapped left arm. "Can't keep this in place. Hurts. You saw."

House purses his lips out with a sigh. "Yeah well, as usual I'm the one who has to come up with the brilliant ideas around here." Ignoring Wilson's look of perturbation, he retrieves Cuddy's package from its hiding place in the kitchen. He tosses it in Wilson's lap.

"Got a present for you, champ," he says.

Wilson looks at the brightly-wrapped package like it contains a bomb, or rattlesnakes, or some infernal doomsday device that only House could come up with.

"Well? Open it!" House urges.

Wilson shoots him a look of irritation, and for just a moment House rejoices. That's my Wilson! he thinks.

"Izn't a tie, izzit?"

House tries to look as distressed as possible.

"What? No! If there's one thing you don't need it's another tie!" There's a flash of—something in Wilson's eyes then. Huh? House thinks, but then Wilson blinks and whatever it was is gone. "Trust me, this is way cooler than a tie."

Wilson makes a grumpy sound; he awkwardly wedges the narrow parcel under his left arm and uses his good right hand to laboriously untape the wrapping. The shiny paper unfolds, revealing the plain white box beneath. House waits for him to say something about the fact that the words on the gift wrap cheerily proclaim "FOR THE BAR MITZVAH BOY!" but apparently Wilson has already used up his quota of irritation this morning. He fumbles the lid off, and groans softly at the layers of tissue nested inside.

Nope, not quite his entire quota.

House waits, jiggling his cane impatiently as Wilson roots through the thin, crinkly blue paper. At last Wilson finds the prize, and lifts it out carefully. Wilson's eyes widen, and House can contain himself no longer.

"Isn't it great? Cuddy helped."

Wilson is staring at the length of fabric in his right hand.

"It's ... a bikini," he says at last. "You got me ... a ... bikini." He regards the object a moment, then looks at House. "An ... uhgly bikini."

House scowls. "It's not ugly, it's hideous. And it's not a bikini. Or rather, it was a bikini. Now it's a sling!"

"Yeah." House shifts from his chair onto the side of Wilson's bed, forcing Wilson to scoot over a little. He takes the modified swimwear and holds it up. The mutant monkeys now seem to be reaching hungrily for the green-gilled hula girls.

"See? I took the padded shoulder strap from a regular sling, and Cuddy sewed it up in the bottom half of the bikini. Then—" he runs the fabric through his hands; now the lizard girls are chasing the monkeys— "she sewed the top half to the bottom, and voila! the cups provide the arm rest!" House fingers the material thoughtfully. "Soft, comfortable, practical, and it doesn't matter if it gets wet."

Wilson is still staring at the garishly-printed material.

"Cuddy made this?"

"She's a woman of many secret talents," House replies. He pauses. "And I've dedicated my life to finding out every one of them."

"You wish," House says. "Just like this is the closest you'll ever get to wearing Cuddy's panties on your head."

Wilson makes a grunting sound that's probably meant to be a laugh as House gently maneuvers Wilson's left arm into the sling. He unfastens the clip on the long neck strap and lifts one end, intending to loop it over Wilson's shoulders.

The soft, silky fabric brushes against Wilson's cheek.

Wilson gasps and jerks back; his eyes are wide with terror and he's grabbed hold of House's wrist, keeping it from going any further.

"No," he breathes. "Please—"

House sits very still. Wilson's grip is like iron; it's cutting off his circulation and already House can feel pins and needles in his fingertips. He keeps the pain from his face and schools himself to calmness.

"Wilson," he says softly. "Wilson, it's me. House."

Wilson stares at him. He's panting and there's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. It's clear he doesn't recognize House or the apartment.

"Wilson?" House's hand is beginning to change colors, blooming a mottled red and white. He grits his teeth.

"James! It's me," he says again.

Wilson blinks. The vise-like grip slowly loosens, then Wilson's hand has fallen away. House is left rubbing his wrist, urging the blood to flow faster. I'll have bruises there, he thinks clinically. What the fucking hell was that all about?

"Sorry," Wilson whispers. His head is bowed and he's looking at his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry. Flashback."

"Yeah, I got that part," House replies dryly. "Don't worry about it." He takes a deep breath. "Want to try this again?"

Wilson nods, and slowly, carefully, House manages to loop the long strap over the back of Wilson's neck without touching his face. Once it's fastened, he sits back. Wilson's breathing has slowed to almost normal.

"Okay?" House asks.

"'kay," Wilson says.

"Good." House stands up and rubs his hands together briskly. Wilson's eyes flick quickly away. "Let's get you some juice and your morning meds and then you can give that thing a test-drive."

House listens to the shower run. He doesn't want to think about what he's just seen, but the analytical part of his mind won't let it go.

It had been the touch of cloth against Wilson's face that had set him off. At some point in his captivity his kidnappers must have gagged him.

Wilson had never mentioned a gag.

The pieces of the puzzle are there, jigsaw fragments scattered on a card table. Little pieces of pasteboard, that when fit together in the right way, reveal a complete picture—Stonehenge, a German castle, the Statue of Liberty. A cow. A horse.

For the first time in his life, House doesn't want to see the whole picture.

I am giggling and laughing so hard at the start of this story then just as suddenly all the joy is sucked out of me as if I had fallen into a black hole. I can see and feel Wilson's terror. And then I feel House's terror. All of his efforst are on pulling Wilson out that black hole. Then just as quickly everything is back to what now passess for normal. Damn that was f***ing amazing!!

Note: would it be appropriate to refer to the now converted bikini as a slingkini?

*exhale*I was so happy to find out what the hell House was making for him (I had really weird thoughts of House posing in lingerie and giving the photos to Wilson as a crack gift, and had to push them away REALLY quickly), and then you pulled the rug out from under me with his flashback. Again. And I love you for it. This was so good.

Wow... is it possible to have "sympathy flashbacks"? There I was, smiling at the mental picture of monkeys and coconuts in a hideous bikini-sling...next thing I'm slightly nausious, sweaty and my heartrate took a leap off the charts.

"For the first time in his life, House doesn't want to see the whole picture."I can well imagine. :-\ And yet, he has little choice but to do so. Perhaps it is fortunate that he is only likely to get the picture in little puzzle-pieces....

Clever idea about the sling! I was seriously wondering what the holy heck House was up to there - now I know. Btw, what IS the fascination w/tacky Hawai'ian-isms???

Another wonderful section, where Wilson is trying to pull free of what happened but is still rooted in it no matter what he does (nightmares when he sleeps, lingering physical protests as he wakes, flashbacks when someone/something touches him or moves in the wrong way). Love the detail of Wilson looking quickly away when House rubs his hands in the same way Martin did. I wonder if House will pick up on that or if he'll be occupied with the latest conundrum of the gag and figuring out what might have happened during the time he was gagged that was so bad Wilson wouldn't tell him about it.

That last line is terrifically in character for House. It reminds me of a passage I loved as much from Daasgrrl's "Tender Mercies," also after Wilson had been assaulted:

Immediately, he froze, his brain already having leapt to a conclusion the rest of him was unable to handle. […] House just sat there, for once in his life uncertain as to what to do, his need and duty to examine Wilson warring with his fervent desire not to know, never to know.

D:

I should have known from the title of this piece that House's little gift would backfire somehow; sadly it's another trigger for Wilson, who's adrift like a lost sailor (lovely analogy). The "Keen Latifah" line made me laugh.

Went from laughing at "Keen Latifah" to whimpering at "A cow. A horse." in about sixty seconds flat. I like how House has started dancing around the issue of his past with Martin, not quite able to bring himself to talk about the details, and now is forced to face the fact that Wilson has been avoiding speaking of his own experience much more adroitly. At some point they will have to confront these things head-on together, and I trust you guys to accomplish that poignantly and gracefully, even if you have to do it despite the two of them.

Mm hm. Behold the Power of Nightdog. This chapter was almost entirely her doing, although I think the Queen Latifah bit was mine. It all sort of blurs together, even for us.

despite the two of them

Indeed! And there was something you mentioned earlier, about writing, about waiting for the characters to come around to things instead of forcing it with them. Precisely, yes. They'll do something or they won't, and if they won't, we feel it's no use trying to make them.